Mischief Managed
by pyrrhic.effort
Summary: Two glimpses of some Marauders. A moment of pride and a moment of desperation.


**Title: Mischief Managed**

**Summary: Two glimpses of some Marauders. A moment of pride and a moment of desperation.**

**A/N: It always struck me as a little obvious to make Peter's Animagus form a rat, especially since I don't like the "bumbling idiot" take to which he's often subjected. Because he was really pretty resourceful, wasn't he, to survive for all that time? This was called "Survivor" in my head until I figured out the first half of the story.**

"Close sesame? Really? Is that the best you can do, Moony?"

Remus gave an exasperated sigh, shooting a glare at Sirius, who was hopping through the stands in the empty Quidditch pitch where the four Marauders sat. It was a warm afternoon in early October, the last October the four boys would ever spend at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The end of an era, Sirius had mournfully announced at one point last year. Long would they be honored in the history of Hogwarts prankery! At which point Remus had pointed out that prankery wasn't a word and the whole argument had devolved into silly wordplay, but the Marauders had nonetheless taken the point to heart and hatched one of the most elaborate schemes of their six years at the school. A little something to remember us by, James had wryly suggested.

It was James' idea, initially. A map of the entire castle, taking into account not only classrooms and moving staircases and secret passageways, but also all the people present in the building. A daunting task by any standard. But the Marauders had persevered. Remus had spent hours in the library, dragging the others in when he could, researching mapping and location and identification spells. Peter had been absolutely invaluable as Wormtail, sneaking into places the others couldn't get to uncover private rooms and new corridors. James and his invisibility cloak had been almost as useful. And Sirius had gleefully taken responsibility for many of the private rooms of authority figures in the castle, one of his finest moments being the spectacular explosion of Snape's potion for the sixth time in one day in Slughorn's class when they knew Dumbledore was busy elsewhere. The unrepentant sixth year had had the perfect chance to peek into the headmaster's private quarters before Dumbledore arrived to have yet another, as Professor McGonagall had wryly dubbed them years before, Teatime with Mr. Black.

The map held a little bit of all of them at this point, snippets of their failures and successes, their passions and hatreds (the latter mostly being from Sirius, and mostly consisting of Snape.) They had labored over it through the end of sixth year and through the summer, and now, as they began their seventh and final year at Hogwarts, it was complete. They had taken it on test runs, including one nearly disastrous expedition that caused Sirius, in an unexpected burst of diligence, to spend a full week ensuring that Mrs. Norris' movements would be represented with painstaking accuracy. They had tweaked and refined it, and finally, there was nothing left to do but add the passwords that would cause it to reveal its secrets to none but worthy eyes.

It had been Sirius who had come up with the opening password in what Remus had called a rare flash of eloquence. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." Peter had declared it brilliant on the spot, and the Marauders had immediately keyed it into the map. The closing words, though, were proving to be a bit more of a challenge. And that was why the four boys had met on the pitch after their final class of the day, determined to finish their work on their masterpiece.

"Well, it does have a certain symmetry," Remus defended, with no real conviction.

Sirius gave him a Look.

Remus sighed again. "Okay, I know it isn't a very good suggestion. But we've been out here for an hour and perhaps you lot have already finished the four feet McGonagall assigned this morning on Bowden's Theory, but I certainly haven't – mnph!"

Sirius had leaped down to throw his hand over Remus' mouth. "Quiet!" he hissed. "Don't say such non-Maraudery things next to the map! It'll get the wrong idea!" He cautiously removed his hand, and when it was clear that Remus was going to do nothing other than roll his eyes at his dark-haired compatriot, Sirius struck a regal pose in front of the group.

"Friends! Romans! Countrymen!" he began grandiosely. "Lend me your ears! We come to defeat homework, not to do it! The evil homework brings must be countered with a prank of such magnificence, such magnitude, such beauty as can only be found in this humble map that we have bled and wept over – "

"Lay off, I didn't mean to bleed on it that time," Peter interrupted good-naturedly. "And you'd probably cry a tear or two yourself if you had a quill stabbed into your hand!"

"And while I suppose we must admit to being your countrymen, and quite probably your friends as well, for reasons I shall never comprehend, I do draw the line at Romans," Remus cut in.

Sirius glared haughtily until the protests had ended. "As Rome was founded by Remus and Romulus, I adhere to my previous statement." Remus covered his eyes and groaned as Sirius continued.

"_Any_way, what I meant to say was that we must put aside homework and other lesser concerns until we finish this thing! None of us can leave the stands until we reach a consensus!"

"Dinner's in an hour," Peter pointed out hopefully.

Sirius smirked but nodded, ceding the point. "Or until dinner time, whichever comes first. Are we agreed then? Moony? Wormtail? Prongs?"

They turned to look at James, who was lying on his back along one of the benches, gazing abstractedly at the sky, his lips forming a few syllables at regular intervals. He was absorbed either in brainstorming a good password for the map or in daydreaming about Lily Evans. No one was willing to take a bet as to which.

Sirius flopped down on the bench between Remus and Peter with a huff to gaze morosely at the map in front of them. "Well, he's useless. You two will just have to manage with being stuck with my striking good looks and unbelievable brilliance."

Remus gave him an incredulous look. "Sirius, your last suggestion for a password was 'Severus Snape is a slimy sniveling snake'. I hardly think that warrants any claims of 'unbelievable brilliance'."

Sirius grinned unrepentantly. "Don't I get points for alliteration?" Remus didn't deign to give him an answer.

"Seriously, though, we need to think of something. Something elegant, something fitting of the opening password, something worthy of the Marauders! You can't expect me to do all the work coming up with these things! What do you guys have?"

Sirius looked at Remus and Peter expectantly. Remus rubbed his eyes, trying to come up with yet another candidate that might stand up to Sirius' exacting and ever-changing standards. Peter bit his lip. "I'm hosed for ideas, Padfoot. Why don't you ask Prongs for something? He's been writing poetry for Evans since third year, surely he must be better with words than we are."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "To call that drivel poetry…"

Sirius shushed him and looked contemplatively at James. "Prongsie, give us poetry worthy of the map." There was no response. "Proooooongs!" James didn't stir. Sirius glared. "Poke him, Peter."

Peter poked him. James' head bounced up. "Emerald eyes – what?"

Sirius groaned melodramatically, flinging his arms into the air. "Unless 'emerald eyes' is your suggestion for our closing password, which I veto, by the by, you, Messieur Prongs, are off topic. Focus, James! This is important Marauder business!"

James had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. This was The Map, after all. Their crowning glory. It deserved all of their full attentions.

"Sorry mate. You have a suggestion to vote on?"

Sirius shook his head in exasperation. "No no no. No one has any decent ideas. Peter suggested we employ your poetical genius to find something suitably brilliant. Amaze us!"

James sighed and looked up at the sky again briefly. "Er – how about something that reflects our opening? You know, something like, 'I solemnly swear that, um, I've done… nothing good…'"

Everyone looked at him.

"Yeah, I know." James glared back. "Look, I never said I was good at poetry, okay?"

"Be still mine heart, he admits it," Remus commented drily. "But I don't think that's such a great idea anyway. Imagine you're out in the hallway some night using the map and all of a sudden you realize Filch is about to turn the corner and walk straight into you. You've no time to run, you just have to cut your losses and hope the detention doesn't involve pickled eels. And if you have a whole mouthful of a password to get out before he sees you in the next two seconds? We need to be able to close the map quickly. Do you want to know what would happen if Filch got his hands on it?"

There was a brief silence while each of the four boys considered that ultimately terrifying possibility. Sirius whimpered slightly.

"Point taken, Moony old pal," James said hastily. "Your logic is irrefutable. Something short, then." He looked around expectantly, but no one made any suggestions.

The four boys stared at the map. The map stared back. Sirius idly poked at the footprints showing Rubeus Hagrid's path from the Great Hall out to the gamekeeper's cabin. It was silent for perhaps ten minutes, quite possibly a new record for the Marauders. And then –

"Mischief managed."

Everyone turned to look at Peter. Sirius raised an eyebrow, probably intending to meet the suggestion with the ridicule with which he'd met Peter's past contributions, but then lowered it again, looking contemplative. "You know," he said slowly, "I think Wormtail's got it."

James nodded and began to grin. "Mischief managed. I like it. Short, succinct, and yet… elegant."

Peter flushed at the unexpected praise. It wasn't often the other Marauders genuinely considered, much less liked, a contribution of his, and it certainly hadn't happened recently.

Remus was nodding too, and gave Peter a warm smile. "That's perfect, Peter. Shall we make it official?"

The Marauders stood and gathered around the map in a loose circle, tense with eager anticipation. James pointed his wand, reactivating the concealing charm they'd started on it last month when Sirius had come up with the opening password. He looked up at the other Marauders, grinning at them all. Then he tapped the map and carefully intoned, "Mischief managed."

The map went blank.

Peter cheered and Sirius whooped. Remus broke into one of his rare completely unguarded smiles. James slung his arms around his friends' shoulders, as they stood there together, rejoicing in their friendship and their completed masterpiece. "Gentlemen," he said, "let the year of the Marauders begin!"

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_And on this day_, Peter thought bleakly, _the Marauders are ended._

It was a cold night in late October. Peter stood, completely alone in the world, watching as his life burned down in front of his eyes. The fire he had started in the Potters' house – _James and Lily's house_ – was slowly growing. Peter could feel no warmth from it. He stood in the cold, shivering, trying to hold back the tears that he could feel treacherously rising to the surface. He must not cry. His Master would know, and his punishment would be all the worse for it.

They had arrived at the house in Godric's Hollow less than an hour ago, using the portkey the Dark Lord had created himself after Peter had revealed to him the secret hiding place of the Potter family. After he had betrayed James. It was all becoming horribly real. Peter had known what he was doing – it was what he wanted! But still, he hadn't… _known_.

His Master had stalked confidently down the street, stopping in front of the house Peter had indicated. There were other wards, of course, beyond the Fidelius Charm. Paranoia had come to be expected, in the last few years. But nothing could stand long under the onslaught of the Dark Lord.

In mere minutes, the house had been laid bare, open to attack. And then, eyes flashing brightly in the darkness, his Master had turned to Peter. "It is rude to enter a friend's house unannounced, Wormtail," he'd purred. "Give your old schoolmate a token of our arrival."

Peter had stared at the house and summoned up the memories of every time James had ignored him, every time the other boy had passed him over in favor of spending time with Sirius, or Lily, or even Remus. Every time James had sat by, uncaring, or perhaps even joining in the laughter as Sirius mocked his latest Potions fiasco. Every time the other Marauders had made him feel that his skills were inferior to theirs. Every _bloody_ time they'd looked down at him kindly, ruffled his hair like a bloody child, and told him not now, we're busy, run along now Pete we'll sort it out later. And Peter had felt the rage building inside him, so it was with no regret at all that he'd stabbed his wand violently towards the home of his one-time friend and screamed, "_Incendio_!"

And the Dark Lord had laughed, a cruel and cold sound bearing no resemblance whatsoever to amusement. He'd flicked his own wand to the sky. "_Morsmorde_." The green skull filled the sky above the house as he opened the gate casually, a conqueror strolling through his newly won territories. And then he'd paused.

"But surely this is inconsiderate of me, my loyal servant. It feels good, does it not? To cause harm to this false friend? And he has done so much more to you than to me. I could hardly keep this night to myself, now, could I, Wormtail?" And he'd gestured in front of himself, a clear invitation to lead the way. Peter had taken a step forward, filled with anger and hatred towards the man he'd once followed around Hogwarts with eyes full of worship. But then he had heard Lily's cry.

And suddenly Peter couldn't force himself to take another step.

His Master's coldly handsome face had grown ugly, as it did whenever one of his Death Eaters made an ill-fated attempt to defy his wishes. "Wormtail," he'd said warningly, the disgust he felt for the rat Animagus creeping into his tone. "Enter the household!"

Peter had fallen to the ground, trembling in fear and anger and horror. "My Lord," he'd begged. "Forgive me, I am weak. I would only hinder you in your moment of greatness. Please, my lord, do not…" He'd trailed off. It was useless. He'd feel the Cruciatus Curse for this for certain. The only comfort – slim, though it was – was that there was no time for it now. The Order would arrive within minutes, distractions the Dark Lord had arranged aside. And his Master was often in a better mood after making a kill. Perhaps he would get off lightly. For now, Peter could only grovel in the spell-scorched earth at his Master's feet.

He'd read the situation correctly thus far, though. The Dark Lord's face twisted in anger, but he'd done nothing more than deliver a vicious kick into Peter's side that toppled him over, gasping in pain. Then he strode purposefully into the Potters' household, blasting the door aside with a snarled _Reducto_. Peter had picked himself up off the ground in time to hear the first shouted _Avada Kedavra_. And then there had been the green light, and it had hit Peter that James Potter, his closest friend for at least seven years, was dead.

_It happened so quickly…_

So Peter stood before the house, unable to move or to tear his gaze away. He had the horrible thought that if he stood just a bit to the left, he might be able to see James' body. But as much as he summoned up the memory of every wrong James had committed against him, he could not make himself take so much as a single step.

James was dead.

"You wouldn't understand, James," he whispered into the night. "He's – not with the Dark Lord, you can't – I couldn't – you can't say _no_ to him! I'm not strong like you! You should have known! You shouldn't have abandoned me! You shouldn't –"

He cut himself off abruptly, hating James again for making him feel so uncertain. His Master was in the right! This was all James' fault, all of it. He'd brought it upon himself. Peter was just doing what he'd had to do. Surviving.

Peter stared into the sky at the Dark Mark floating overhead, grinning evilly, soullessly at the chaos below.

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead– "

Peter's attention was claimed once again by the horrible scene unfolding before him. Lily's words were painfully audible. Peter shivered uncontrollably. He'd _known_ what would happen when he agreed to be their Secret Keeper, he'd _known_ this was coming. He'd worked for it. He'd wanted it! Why was he shrinking back now, at his time of victory? His Master was strong, invincible. If Peter intended to survive, which he did, he had to be on His side!

"Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy…"

But Lily's words had no more effect than any of the other thousand times one of the Dark Lord's Death Eaters had begged for the same. Mercy was a quality the Dark Lord knew not.

_You didn't have to die, you stupid girl_, Peter thought furiously. _You could have survived, like me. Just ran away. But now it's too late_.

He heard his Lord's cold, hard laugh, and heard him shout the syllables of the Killing Curse. Lily's scream was cut short in a flash of green light as his Master continued to laugh.

_And now baby Harry_, Peter thought, trying to be indifferent. _And then we can leave._

He wished his Master would hurry – the Order would surely be arriving at any moment now. And then Dumbledore would be here, and the Longbottoms, and Sirius Black – oh Merlin, Sirius Black.

_Sirius will kill me_. Peter knew it with utter conviction. Sirius was the only other person alive who knew that Peter had been the Potters' Secret Keeper, and he would stop at nothing to avenge the deaths of his friends.

Peter set his jaw in resolve. This was it, then. There was no going back to any part of his old life. He was irrevocably bound to the Dark Lord through fear and adoration and horror and necessity. Because in the end, what was necessary was survival. At any cost.

He could hear the thin wail of baby Harry, barely audible over the roaring of the flames, soon to approach James' body in the entryway. And then, the expected flash of green light –

And then a sudden, short, terrible scream –

And then Peter was frozen in horror once again, because _something had happened._

He felt it in his Mark, a sudden fierce burning pain, and then… A lessening, of some sort, was the only way Peter could think to describe it. And his horror could only grow as he realized that he could still hear a baby crying.

_Harry? No! Impossible!_ A child, barely a year old, could not survive the Killing Curse at the hands of the Dark Lord himself! But Peter could feel His absence. It was almost a palpable thing, so intensely had he been aware of his Lord's presence before.

Peter staggered back from the gate, unable to process the utter disaster unveiling itself before him.

_The Dark Lord is gone! But how could that _be_?_ _He was invincible, undefeatable!_

And then, most pressingly – _Oh sweet Merlin, what do I do now?_

Peter spun wildly, frantically. No one had arrived yet, but really, it could only be seconds until someone did. _What do I do!_

He whirled to face James' house again. "This is all your fault, Potter!" he shrieked in fury. "You and your bloody family can't even die properly!" He continued to stumble backwards until he reached a lamppost, which he clutched desperately as his sole anchor to reality.

_Stop_, he told himself firmly. _You can't fall apart now. You have to think. You have to survive._

Peter began to catalogue his facts. One, the Dark Lord was… missing. Peter didn't dare classify Him as dead. It was, in fact, possible that this was a test of Peter's loyalty. Peter latched onto this straw eagerly, even as he knew that the suggestion was unlikely at best. Two, he was standing outside the house of the man he'd betrayed, a house containing at least two bodies and with the Dark Mark floating overhead. Three, the Order of the Phoenix were due to arrive immediately. This was the bad part.

But no one except Sirius knew that he had betrayed James and Lily. And no one except Sirius and Remus knew that he was a rat Animagus. And Peter could hide a long time if he had to. Hiding, he had often suspected, was perhaps his greatest skill. Hiding meant avoiding consequences. Avoiding consequences meant surviving. _And_, Peter told himself firmly, _I am going to survive._

The only problem was Sirius and Remus revealing his secret. But Remus thought that Sirius had been the Secret Keeper… And Sirius would stop at nothing to attempt to kill Peter…

Peter gave a cold, hard smile to the dark night, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. He turned to take one last look at the house, burning loudly in the street. This was the end of perfect James Potter, Head Boy and darling of Dumbledore's – and everyone else's – eye. It would be the end of smirking Sirius Black, with his looks and his brains, who had never had anything more than a bare tolerance for the smallest and quietest member of the Marauders. And it would be the end of Remus Lupin, the boy in whom he had hoped to find something of a quiet kindred spirit, a true companion, but who, in the end, had not had any time for Peter either, wrapped up in his own life, selfishly ignoring the debt he owed Peter for having done so much to help conceal _a werewolf_ from the other students of Hogwarts. How would he survive now with his network of friends taken away from him?

But it would not be Peter's end.

He would survive. He always did. That's what rats did, after all. They didn't take on enemies larger than themselves, impossible to defeat. They depended on cleverness and craftiness to succeed, rather than foolhardy ventures. They hid in the dark corners of the world while everything else burned around them, and only after they were certain it was safe would they once again emerge, triumphant.

Alive.

Survival was the most important thing, and it was worth any cost Peter had to pay to obtain it.

He stared at the burning house gripping his wand tightly, and his lips gave a cruel, bitter twist. "Mischief managed, James," he hissed into the dark.

Then there was a loud crack, and the street was empty once more.


End file.
